


That Last Day in Albequerque

by JohnHHolliday (Methleigh)



Category: 19th Century US RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-21
Updated: 2012-05-21
Packaged: 2017-11-05 18:04:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/409400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Methleigh/pseuds/JohnHHolliday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John does something terrible, but he is very sorry and tries to pay for it but cannot really expiate it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Last Day in Albequerque

_Say, what shall calm us when such guests intrude,  
Like comets on the heav’nly solitude?  
Shall breathless glades, cheered by shy Dian’s horn,  
Cold-bubbling springs, or caves? Not so! The Soul  
Breasts his own griefs: and, urged too fiercely, says:  
‘Why tremble? True, the nobleness of man  
May be by man effaced: man can control  
To pain, to death, the bent of his own days.  
Know thou the worst. So much, not more, He _can.

John has long breasted his own griefs but now, only now, he is beginning to face them and, dare he say, share them. This season he has reconsidered his deepest regret, peeling the rotting bandage from the hidden running wound, self-inflicted. It is not born of blood, hate or vice, despite his reputation. It is personal shame, and he had spent his last years atoning. But though he had suffered – rightly, he judges – it is never enough. He can never take back the words spat in jealousy and temper so long ago. Though he can forgive his friends any folly or darkness - from harm they do unto themselves to wholesale slaughter – John cannot forgive himself.

 

Atonement. All this has been working back towards John’s customary and essential unshakeable peace with himself. For John is shaken. And despite all he does and all he feels, his dreams are stalked and haunted. He wakens at night, eyes wide in the dark. And yes, he weeps, and only sometimes in fever. Guilt and loss. Confronting himself - opening that locked and barred door within him _to_ himself – lets his guilt and loss creep towards him with the sun-deprived sickliness of anyone kept years in blind cramped darkness. They come towards him and enfold him; become again part of him. He wants to be washed clean. He wants to wash clean that hour though it has past. He tries to make the present pure - as he would have it and as he would have himself.

Afterwards, he remembers himself running.  
Afterwards, he never trusted himself to have a friend.  
Afterwards, he never burdened his family again.

Afterwards, he had found himself kneeling before the altar in that small town in the Colorado mountains, exorcised with his hair damp and a cross of chrism on his brow, newborn.

But it had never been enough. Perhaps enough to bind the wound, but never enough to heal it.

John kneels again.  
 _"I confess to almighty God, and to you, my brethren, that I have sinned exceedingly through my own fault, in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done and what I have failed to do."_

He rises and takes a deep breath to tell the story. Somehow it is confession he wants – to those friends he loves and considers brothers – that they will understand him, that they will know the worst of him, that he may be honest with them, that if they fear also or have such sorrow they will not be alone in that.

John begins:

"Has there ever been someone for whom you lived; someone who filled all your world; someone for whom you _could_ live even when you would have welcomed death; someone in whom all your heart and soul were wrapped; someone you tried to give your life to protect or keep from even the smallest slight; someone who let your poor broken life have work and dignity and meaning and let you join them in plan and reason for all things right?"

Is that the way to start? Maybe not.  
John tries again, slightly obliquely but from the beginning.

“Once upon a time there was a girl. How may stories begin this way?  
But I did not love her in a romantic way, and the story is not really about her.

“She came to town – that small inescapable mining town in Arizona – not as a prostitute, as so many single young women did; not as chaste, exactly, but with intentions to marry a dishonourable individual who shall not otherwise enter this story, lest it become unreasonably complex and long. She was only nineteen, of good family, with dark red hair and laughing eyes, for she saw adventure and humour everywhere. On coming to town she made acquaintance and friends with another equally virtuous young woman – a milliner. I had also helped this other young woman against the vile elements of town with arms, considered threat, active defence and determination. I am, in most things, a gentleman and as such cannot and will not treat a lady with other than gentleness, nor allow her to be mistreated. This new young woman had no livelihood, though she had been an actress, and I offered my polite and respectful Southern service and also gave her money, as needed.

“Alright. He uncoils his pain enough to speak it for this confession. “Her name was Josie.”

John begins again, it seems. “Once upon a time I had a friend. Wyatt. He was, as I said, everything. When I thought my life was worthless as well as over, I found such quality in him that I could take his cause and make it mine. He let me live not simply to die, but to give. Because he never asked for my reform or expected _less_ of me than I could give, I gave him everything, curbing even my demeanour for his sake. I loved him – love him – and I do not hesitate to admit it.

_”His wrong is your wrong  
and his right is your right  
In season and out of season.  
Stand up and back  
in all men’s sight -  
With that for your only reason.  
999 can’t bide  
The shame  
or mocking or laughter  
But the Thousandth Man  
Will stand by your side  
To the gallows foot  
And after!_

“Wyatt. He never denied me, even when others jeered at his friendship, questioned it, or even looked _likely_ to do so. Even when he was dying; even without being asked; even when – especially when – it would have been a personal detriment, he was always readily affirming: “Doc Holliday was my friend.” He never asked aught of me but valued my help and ideas, knowing of what I was capable and knowing too that he could nevertheless rely on my commitment. He sought my council, including me – even me - and forgiving my temper and vice, my illness and my reputation. Imagine what it meant to me, despised or feared, irrevocably separated from home and family. Wyatt opened his heart to me; listened to me; actually… prized me.”

After this John frowns, considering what he has said. “That makes it sound so small and personal, but it was so much more than that. I _chose_ him. I chose him for his vision and diligence; for his pursuit of honour and right, in bravery, thought and preparation. And I admired his essential quietness, watching his serious concentration for his rare smile. It took me long to win his confidence and notice, pouring words as is my wont, and standing ever-ready until the occasion arose when I actually saved his life at the risk of my own, and he finally turned to me and embraced me.”

John has _again_ distracted himself from his purpose, but returns to Tombstone - and his pain and loss – with a sigh.

“The girl. Wyatt had come know the girl through me, and had come to love her and desire a life with her. He had not changed towards me, sincere, open-armed and welcoming as always. But I was afraid and jealous with panic and bitterness rising through me, as I was helpless to check it. He had sent her away to California after the cowboys shot Virgil and killed Morgan. We were both bereft, Wyatt and I. His brothers _were_ my family, and Morgan was close to me as a friend as well. Sharing our grief, Wyatt and I were more at one with one another than we had ever been before. For Morgan, we rode together against those who had cast an evil shadow over the territory. Shoulder to shoulder, we dealt vengeance, sleeping out of doors, planning and acting in perfect unison – Wyatt and I. In purpose and… communion unsurpassed, my life had reached its zenith of service and love, finally fulfilled. And we killed and killed and killed.

“When we were finished, we rode into Albuquerque sated, our hearts risen and our hands dripping blood. There may have been some we killed in whom I might have seen that spark of pain and guilt, strength and duty. But there have been so few that it was not likely in such as congregated among the cowboys, Billy Leonard aside. There is no time in such situations, and we had purpose and the vision of a better world to steel us. We were _cleansing_ to build civilisation in the West.

“Albuquerque. We came to my own friend Gillie Otero to rest and wait in New Mexico. It had been a hard trail and I was, of course, ill. And I was ill with something else.” John takes another deep breath to confess. “I failed Wyatt at Iron Springs. True, I was behind him on the trail, true I saved the life of Texas Jack. But I did not ride _forward_ through the bullets to fight at his side. And he killed Curly Bill and stood bravely, valiantly, and alone. He had been ahead of us on the trail and rode into them as we were going towards the water. As the bullets flew, Texas Jack’s horse went down, and we who were behind Wyatt retreated. I went back for Texas Jack, but Wyatt was dismounted and still moving _forward_ in the thick of the fray, fighting them by himself.

“Wyatt forgave me. Afterwards I had proposed – oh, too little and late – that we pursue them, but he only looked at me and later said we had ‘rallied belatedly.’ He had forgiven me, and God in Heaven. But I had not forgiven myself this.

“As we waited in Gillie’s town with little for occupation, I worried about this constantly. Wyatt changed towards me not at all, but he began to speak again of making a life with the girl. I was already off balance with guilt – disturbed, nervous and worrying. I had helplessly descended into that dangerous disorganisation where one constantly calculates and recalculates, succumbing to alternating waves of hope and despair as to the welcomeness of my presence or actions. Such is never a good state, leading to folly and sorrow. _Man_ can _control to pain, to death, the bent of his own days…_ Can. But sometimes one is simply… mad. Guilt and pain. States but not excuses. There is no excuse.”

John looks miserable. There is nothing more to the story but what he did. He is sure no one will speak to him again, touch him, or trust him to love them without harm, though it is all he wants. John sounds miserable, even remembering. The pain is _still_ there. Not just guilt, but the bewilderment and hurt that had led to it. The panic and fear are still there to feel in the memory. He continues as best he may.

“Wyatt began to visit and stay with a Jewish man in town. And he still shared with me. But the light in his eyes, the learning and his happiness in the newness of discovery and change were for her and from her. I was included, but…” John looks down, ashamed too that he is still hurt… _still_. “I was not first.

“He wore a tefillin, such as only the most orthodox do, and a kippah. He lit candles and learned prayers. He showed me the little dreidel and learned of the holy days. New words in Hebrew and new letters. For her, all for her. Leaving me in spirit if not in fact. He loved and I was small and yes… selfish, but… but…”

John recollects himself and says the rest blandly and simply looking away. “I found myself taunting him and sneering, laughing at him in the street. ‘So you want to be a rotten Jew-boy…’” It is too much. He cannot continue. The terrible words echo and burn and he cannot recount them again though they score his mind with burning fire that will never completely die away, no matter what he does.

He wraps his arms around himself. “Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me.” If he asks it of himself he cannot grant it.

Eventually he manages to continue and nearly quotes what Gillie had said, confirming to himself he had had regret, because it came from an objective friend, “I was sorry the moment I said it, but I _had_ said it, had done it. I was not to be trusted. I had… betrayed and hurt the greatest man I knew, my… friend... who I loved like nothing on earth. Wyatt, Wyatt...” He needs to stop himself from wailing, apparently, even now.

“And I left him, for I had... sinned beyond my own endurance. I could not bear to be a person who could behave so. I came to see him when I was nearing death. To say goodbye. Goodbye. Until I am to see him again. And I _shall_ see him again, knew by then I _would_ see him again. He forgave me. He still loved me. And yes, I never dared have a friend again, never sought the companionship or sympathy of my family. No one. I _paid_ , but the debt is incalculable.”

His eyes are wet, intense as always, but sad, old and open with shame. “Forgive me?” _Help me forgive myself? Help me... redeem myself?_ He clicks the little gifts in his pockets. Trying, trying, trying in small ways to make it better. And still he feels that he does not _deserve_ to try, for himself. But deserves to feel that shame eternal. God forgives him; he knows it must be so. But nothing ends it.


End file.
